


Reprise

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medieval mud-eating leads to private pity party.  Private pity party leads to -- well, this <i>is</i> slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprise

**Author's Note:**

> Partially inspired by _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ (Michael apparently had a very uncharacteristic temper tantrum when the filming of the mud-eating scene became just too damn uncomfortable) and partially by Michael's mention in his book of his giving up smoking (at the instigation of Terry Gilliam!).

It was _cold_ , dammit. Bloody cold, for the time of year. Bloody Scottish moors with their slashing winds and their driving rains and their mud. Oh, most of all, the fucking _mud_.

He'd got most of it off, with liberal applications of lukewarm water (not _hot_ , of course, oh no, mustn't make the actors too _comfortable_ ) but he could still feel what remained, sticking to him under his clothes (at least he'd been able to change out of his filthy costume, no doubt barely avoiding frostbite in the process), in his hair, in his nostrils, and in places too private for public scrubbing. He could taste it, too, though he'd been spitting energetically at regular intervals for an hour, at least.

He was tired. He was miserable. He was _fed up_. He knew he'd get over it in an embarrassingly short period of time. That was his nature. But until then, he intended to wallow in it to the hilt.

He wandered down the hill to where the little stream bubbled along through a grove of trees. It was almost sunset, and they'd have to wrap up soon, before they lost what little light there was. He didn't really have to be here now. He could have gone back to the hotel already, showered, read, caught up on the diary, maybe had a few drinks. But that would have meant less wallowing.

He was standing, shoulders hunched against the wind, gazing morosely at the cold, sparkling water, when he heard a whistle. Startled, he turned and saw Eric approaching through the trees. He sighed and turned back to face the stream. Naturally, when he wanted to be alone, he'd been tracked down by Eric, who, more than any of them, usually understood the value of solitude. He saw the irony, but it failed to amuse him.

Well, he'd just tell Eric to go away. He'd done it before, after all.

"Thought I'd never find you," Eric said as he neared. He sounded slightly out of breath. "Bloody hell, what're you doing down here?"

Michael didn't turn around. "Enduring."

He heard Eric make an exasperated sound. "What, you _like_ freezing your balls off?" There was a rustling noise, and Mike turned in time to see Eric pick up a small stone and toss it into the stream. "Sure you don't fancy a bit of a swim, too?"

"I _fancied_ ," Michael said, with emphasis, "being alone."

Eric's face took on an expression of exaggerated compassion. "Oh, poor Mikey," he said softly. "Poor, poor Mikey. Got a bit dirty, did we? A bit cold and wet and nasty? Poor little love, poor little -- "

"Oh, fuck off!" Michael snapped, and turned away again, walking closer to the stream.

He heard a muffled laugh, and ground his teeth. There was a pause, and then he flinched violently as Eric's arms went round him from behind. Over the noise of the rushing water, he hadn't heard his approach.

"Scare you?" Eric whispered. "Or perhaps you're just -- " he breathed into Mike's ear "-- excited."

"I'm -- " Michael began, and cleared his throat to rid his voice of its quaver. "I'm miserable, is what."

"Oh, I know, love," Eric murmured, and kissed his ear gently. "But you don't have to _stay_ that way."

"Let go. Eric -- "

"You're so warm," Eric said in a whisper. "Feels nice."

To his considerable irritation, Mike felt himself beginning to relax.

"That's better. Loosen up a bit." Eric's hands made their way under Michael's jacket to rest at his waist, where they stroked him slowly through his shirt.

Michael sighed. "We said we weren't going to do this anymore."

" _You_ said that." Eric kissed his neck. "I never did."

Michael swayed back slightly. His neck was annoyingly sensitive.

"Been so long," Eric sighed against his skin. "God, I've missed you."

"Bollocks," Michael murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

"Oh, I have, I have." He pulled Mike closer, until his groin was pressed snugly to Michael's backside, and began to sway gently from side to side. " _Two of us_ ," he sang very softly into Michael's ear. " _Just the two of us / Not too many or two few of us_..."

Michael laughed, quite against his will. "Eric, you are so full of -- "

"Sssh," Eric whispered. "You've missed me, too."

Michael sighed and said nothing.

Eric's right hand slipped downward and was suddenly cradling Mike's cock through his trousers. Michael gasped, and felt himself stiffen with humiliating rapidity.

"How long," Eric murmured, "since you've put this someplace warm?"

Mike didn't reply.

"How long?" He squeezed gently.

"All right," Michael choked out. "You've made -- you've made your point."

"See?" He heard the smile in Eric's voice. "That's what all that shouting and swearing and generally going spare was all about." He drew his tongue slowly, slowly up Mike's neck from shoulder to ear. " _Sexual tension_."

Mike shuddered.

"You need it so badly it's warping your personality." Eric's fingers stroked him, far too lightly. "Am I right?" he whispered.

"Yes," Michael breathed. Frustrated, he reached for his zip, wanting to feel Eric's touch on his bare skin, but Eric suddenly released him instead. He almost whimpered at the loss.

"Come on," Eric said. "Let's go, it's getting late."

Michael swallowed. "Go where?"

"Where?" Eric echoed. "Back to the hotel so we won't freeze to death, that's where." His voice dropped silkily. "Lovely warm room, lovely warm blankets, lovely warm Eric..."

Mike closed his eyes and pictured it. "Let's go," he said.

They drove back in his car. It wasn't far, but it seemed like it, what with Eric fondling him, squeezing his knee, kissing his cheek, whispering inflammatory phrases in his ear, at one point prying his left hand off the wheel and sliding it firmly between Eric's nether regions and the seat ("Poor Mike, such cold hands. I'll warm this one up for you."). Mike could, of course, have pulled it back. He didn't. He did remind himself several times that Eric didn't necessarily mean a word he said ("Can't stop touching you, just _can't_ \-- watch the road, love"), but that did nothing to calm his own desires.

By the time they pulled into the hotel's car park, Michael was trembling with need. He parked in a dark corner, switched the engine off, and reached eagerly for Eric, but was met by a puff of air as Eric slid out of the car, slammed the door and headed for the hotel entrance. Michael followed, stumbling in his haste. It was a tease, he knew it was. One of Eric's bloody, teasing games intended to keep him chasing after, begging, pleading for relief. He swore under his breath, but he was too wildly aroused to stop. He could hate himself later.

It was a small hotel, and almost everyone staying there at the moment was either cast or crew. Eric bypassed the crowded elevators and started up the stairs. Mike trailed him, eyes fixed on Eric's swaying rear as they climbed. When they arrived at the correct floor, Eric stood aside and let Michael lead the way to his room.

The instant he closed the door behind them, Eric pulled him into an annihilating kiss. Michael moaned and slid his hands down Eric's back to his arse, where they made themselves happily at home for several long, satisfying moments. Eric's hands found his trouser buttons and undid them with ease. He lowered the zip and lowered himself simultaneously, until he was kneeling, his forehead resting just below Mike's navel, his breath tickling maddeningly. Michael was almost beyond thought, but...

"Eric," he gasped, and put a shaky hand on Eric's head. "I'm dirty."

Eric looked up at him and smiled. "I love dirty boys," he whispered, and placed a soft kiss on the tip of Mike's cock.

"God," Michael murmured. "Oh, God, please -- "

"On second thought... " Eric stood up suddenly. "Let's have a shower."

Michael dragged his eyes open. "What?"

"A shower," Eric said softly, and touched Michael's face. "Hot water running down us, soaping each other up all over, me washing your hair..." His voice was husky. "You always smelled so good. I wanted to taste every inch of you. And I did. Remember?"

"I remember," Michael breathed. He leaned toward Eric to kiss him again, but Eric dodged it, taking his arm and pulling him unceremoniously to the bathroom instead.

The water was blessedly hot, but he scarcely felt it, so engrossed was he in Eric's hands, Eric's lips, Eric's naked skin pressed to his. They washed each other, running slick, soapy hands over each other's bodies, Michael devouring Eric's mouth, Eric burying his fingers in Michael's thick, wet hair, breaking their kiss long enough to gasp, "Fuck, how did I stay away from you?", Mike too impatient to answer, simply dragging Eric's mouth back to his own and sucking hungrily at Eric's tongue. They were close together, so close, their erections touching lightly, maddeningly, the friction not nearly enough, and then Eric's hand was between them, grasping both their cocks, pressing them together, stroking up and down, up and down, and Michael swore fervently and covered Eric's fist with his and they pulled together until they came, almost in unison, and the pelting water washed them clean again.

They clutched each other for balance, swaying dangerously on the slippery tile, hearts pounding, Michael's face against Eric's neck, Eric's breath panting rapidly in his ear. "Jesus," Eric whispered. "Jesus Christ. Just tossin' off, that's all. But with you it feels like a fucking earthquake."

Michael sighed a long sigh, released his grip on Eric, and reached to turn the water off. "Come on," he said quietly. "Let's dry off."

He stepped out of the shower and took two towels from the rack, handing one to Eric, who grinned and promptly wrapped it around Mike's head, blinding him.

"Eric -- " he began, muffled in layers of terrycloth, wavering between amusement and exasperation.

"You dry me and I'll dry you."

"No."

"What d'you mean, no?"

Michael whisked the towel off his head and thrust it back at Eric. "I mean, if you dry me you'll start touching me, and then I'll start touching you, and then we'll start snogging, and then we'll decide to skip dinner and go to bed, and then we'll be right back where we started."

Eric smiled, and rubbed his hair with the towel. "We already are, love."

Mike scrubbed vigorously at his arms. "Not if I can help it."

"You can't help it, though, can you?" Eric said softly, and took a step toward him. Michael stepped back.

Eric sighed. "I don't understand you, Mike. You want it so much it drives you crackers, when you get it you're a fucking tiger, and then you turn round and say that's all, no more. Like to keep me guessing, do you?"

Michael tossed the towel aside. "Look, the only reason this happened just now was -- human weakness."

"That's the only reason it ever happens."

Mike rolled his eyes and reached for a dry towel to wrap around his waist. "You caught me with my defenses down." He secured the towel firmly. "Now they're back up."

"I made you feel good, that's what I did." Eric sat down on the toilet seat and rubbed his legs with his own towel. Michael watched it ruffle the fine golden hairs. "You said it yourself; you were miserable. You needed jollying out of it and that's what you got. And you'd get a lot more of it if I had my way. A lot slower and a lot more thorough." He looked up, meeting Mike's eyes. "I'm not begging, you understand. I just wish you'd give me a reason."

 _Oh no, you don't beg_ , Michael thought. _Not you_.

He sighed. "I don't like addiction. I don't like the feeling of being dependent. I don't like being taken over by something I can't control."

Eric looked hurt. "When did I ever try to take you over? We've always gone our own ways."

"It's -- it's just the way you are." Michael hesitated. "But you couldn't do it if I didn't let you. It's a bit like smoking, really. At first it's great -- well, it's always great -- but then you start to realise you can't do without it. And it's hell to stop it, but if you've any self-respect you must stop it. 'Cos you can't control it, you're surrendering yourself to something you can't control." He stumbled to a halt. "Well, that's the way I see it, anyway."

Eric stared at him. "That is the most extraordinary comparison I've ever heard. Sex is like having a fag?"

Michael felt his face redden slightly. Put like that, it did sound a bit ludicrous. "Not sex. Sex with you."

"I won't give you cancer, Mike." Eric raised his right hand as though taking an oath. "Honestly. I promise."

Michael took down the dressing gown that hung on the back of the door and handed it to Eric. "For God's sake, put this on. Please." He watched as Eric slipped his arms into the wide sleeves. "You should be flattered, you know. It's rather humiliating, having to admit I can't trust myself around you."

Eric rose, pulling the robe's folds around his narrow waist. "Your flattery's a poor substitute for your lovemaking."

Mike blinked. Eric's tone was unexpectedly soulful.

After an uncomfortable silence, Michael spoke. "It's, er, it's past teatime, you know. Are you hungry? We could get dressed and go downstairs -- "

Eric interrupted. "Yes, I'm very hungry. Still. So are you, and we could remain _un_ dressed and stay here. But since that's out, apparently, I'll just go back to my own place. I'm sure you have something you need to do." He walked out into the bedroom and began picking up his scattered clothes.

Michael trailed after him slowly, experiencing an annoying combination of relief, depression, and, to his surprise, guilt. He knew he'd done the right thing. He found Eric far too desirable for his peace of mind, far too addictive (yes, addiction was the right word, melodramatic as it sounded) to wean himself off gradually. The events of the past couple of hours had proved it yet again. He'd been susceptible (for reasons that already seemed trivial, even amusing, but susceptible just the same), and Eric had only had to touch him, to whisper in his ear, and he'd crumbled without a fight. He'd practically chased Eric up the stairs and into the shower. It _was_ humiliating. It was frightening. Especially since he'd told himself repeatedly over the past year that he'd never touch Eric again, that he'd leave him the hell alone, that he could jolly well do without him.

It was the imbalance that bothered him. The fact that Eric so clearly _wasn't_ addicted. He could take it or leave it. And he knew exactly what to say and do to take advantage of that. It was just too vulnerable a position to be in.

So it was the right thing to do, no question. But he hardly felt like cheering.

He sat down on the edge of the bed next to Eric, who was pulling on his socks. Eric glanced at him. "Shouldn't you sit a bit further away?" he asked in an innocent, I'm-only-saying-this-for-your-own-good tone. "I mean, we wouldn't want your purity of soul to get sullied by my seething cauldron of licentiousness, would we?"

"Oh, sod off," Mike muttered. Eric's bare thigh _was_ within easy reach, he noticed, the dressing gown having gaped open. Well, he simply wouldn't touch it, that's all.

Sunk in thought, he jumped when Eric suddenly leaned close and kissed him on the cheek.

"I'm sorry, love," Eric said, drawing back. "I think you're daft, but I won't be a prick about it. You really want to stop, we'll stop. For good, this time. Maybe you're right, at that. Better than having it go all sour, eh? This way, we'll have some lovely memories."

Michael nodded silently.

"And I apologise for what happened. I shouldn't have gone after you the way I did." He sighed. "Don't have an excuse, I suppose. Just the usual lechery."

Michael cleared his throat. "No, no, you -- you wanted to make me feel better. You wanted to comfort me." What the hell was he saying? he thought, appalled. _Comfort_. Nice euphemism, that.

"I did, but -- I could have found some better way to do it." Eric paused. "Well, not _better_. But more in line with your wishes, shall we say. I mean, we could have just got pissed off our arses." He laughed. "That's comforting, too."

That was what had happened the first time, Mike remembered suddenly. They'd had a bit of a pub crawl, he and Eric, a few years ago, he couldn't even remember exactly when. They'd ended up at Eric's house, in Eric's spare bedroom, Eric insisting that he stay the night ("for safety's sake"), him trying with little success to undo his shirt buttons, Eric volunteering nobly to help, both of them falling about with drunken hilarity, and he had kissed Eric in the middle of a laugh. Somehow, he remembered that clearly -- the feel of Eric's open mouth, the taste of the ale, the abrupt, shocked silencing of the laughter. And then the crisp, cool sheets, the soft, fat pillows. He remembered literally shaking with impatience. He'd probably finished before they could even get well started, but that bit was fuzzy. The sharpest memory was of Eric's body, warm and hard and greedy, and the way he had been certain he would die if he couldn't touch every centimetre of it.

"Same thing would've happened, probably," he said, his voice soft with reminiscence. "If we'd got pissed."

Eric smiled. "Maybe. But I'll be on me best behaviour with you from now on. I did it before, I can do it again. No more flirting, no more touching, no more messing about."

"No more," Michael murmured. He stared blindly at the wall across from them.

"But I won't say it'll be easy." Eric shook his head. "This past year -- bloody hell. There were times I thought I'd go mad, I missed you so much."

Bollocks, Michael reminded himself silently. He closed his eyes and repeated it, a bit desperately. _Bollocks_.

"I'd sit at meetings and listen to you talk, or watch you on stage and think, God, if I could only touch him, if I could only have him back."

Mike clutched the blanket in his fists.

"No matter what you think, you mean the world to me, Mike, you really do."

Michael drew in a long, pained breath.

Eric looked searchingly at him. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine." He raised his head and stared, hard, into Eric's eyes. As usual, he could see nothing in them but a reflection of himself.

"What is it?" Eric asked.

Michael put a hand on either side of Eric's face and kissed his lips, gently. When he felt Eric's mouth begin to open, he ended it and laid his forehead against Eric's for a moment before pulling back.

Eric stared at him. "Was that goodbye?" he asked in a whisper. "'Cos if it wasn't, I wish you'd fucking make up your mind."

Mike sighed. "One more," he said. "One more can't hurt, can it?" He put a hand gently on Eric's inner thigh, stroking the soft skin with his fingertips.

Eric looked down at Mike's hand, then up at his face. "Just one more?"

Michael pushed the dressing gown off Eric's shoulders. "Well -- just one more before dinner," he said, and smiled.

And maybe afterwards, he thought before thought became impossible, he'd have a smoke.


End file.
